


Whispers in the Dark

by Eienvine



Category: The Good Cop
Genre: F/M, Introspection, Post-Episode: s01e08 Will Cora Get Married?, and a bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 11:50:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16241036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eienvine/pseuds/Eienvine
Summary: Late that night, after they’ve brought Cora back from the hospital and Joseph Privett is long gone, Tony talks to Connie. Episode 8 tag.





	Whispers in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> So I know I just posted a story three days ago, but this show has taken over my brain. And as I imagine many of you did, I had a lot of feelings about episode 8. So here are some of them.
> 
> Also, I wasn't sure what the protocol is for tagging a story that's definitely about a relationship but one of them is dead. So I tagged it F/M and Tony/Connie, but that doesn't mean that Connie is actually in it. Just FYI.

. . . . . .

If there’s anything that a humiliating public trial and seven years of prison will teach you, it’s how to put on a brave face. So it’s not hard at all for Tony to put on a brave face as he takes Cora to the hospital, as they go back to the house, as TJ makes her scrambled eggs, as she tries not to fall apart in the kitchen.

But now it’s after midnight and the kids are asleep; TJ sacrificed his bed for Cora, so he’s down in the basement with an alarm set on his phone so he can check on her in the middle of the night (doctor’s orders). And now, finally alone, Tony lets his mask slip; he starts pacing, trying to burn off all the agitation in his body. His footsteps are loud, he realizes after a few minutes, and goes out on the back patio to be alone. And there, in the silence and the cold, he talks to Connie.

He used to talk to her all time, right after her death, when he wasn’t coping well with losing her—when he wasn’t coping well with the questions that plagued him about the incident, with his worry for TJ, with the overwhelming guilt that he’d spent her two precious final years on earth behind bars. Generally signs of weakness are not advisable in prison, so he only did it where no one could hear—on laundry duty, mostly, where the sound of the machines drowned out any voices.

So on the days when he could barely bear up under the weight of her loss, he would stand in front of the massive dryers, and he’d talk to Connie: he’d tell her about how he’s doing, and confess his worries about TJ, and most of all he’d apologize, again and again and again. He’s always been a religious man, though not a very devout one, and he believes she can hear him when he talks to her. So the talking helped.

But in time, the blinding pain faded to a dull ache. He learned to live with the loss. And his conversations with Connie lessened, then stopped altogether.

Until tonight, when the thought that he practically had Connie’s killer in his hands and then lost him is like an iron clamp around his chest and there is bile in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he whispers hoarsely, the words so involuntary that at first he doesn’t realize he’s spoken them aloud. “I’m so sorry, baby. I had him, and I let him get away. I promised you I’d get him, but . . .”

A pause. It’s been years since he’s done this, but the sense of relief that always accompanies it—the sense that a weight’s being lifted from his shoulders, just for a few moments—is familiar and welcome.

“And I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he continues. He’s apologized for this a thousand times, but if he should apologize a thousand times more, he’ll never feel like it was enough. “Back then, I mean. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you died, or for those last couple years. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here for Anthony; I know you would’ve wanted me to be.”

There’s a moment of silence, save for a car honking in the distance and the quiet hum of the city, as Tony thinks of Anthony Jr., with his massive glasses and his bossa nova and his obsessive goodness. And a fond grin grows on his face. “That son of yours, I tell you . . . and he’s definitely a son of _yours_. I swear, that kid is nothing like me.” He hesitates. “Well, he’s a good cop; he definitely gets that from me. But everything else . . . like how terrible he is at sports . . .”

He can just hear the indignant, laughing “Hey!” that would have been Connie’s response. She couldn’t throw a ball to save her life, and Tony never got tired of teasing her over it. But her lack of coordination was only in the realm of sports; on the dance floor, he’s never seen anyone so graceful. It’s strange, but that’s what he misses the most: dancing with Connie. Having the love of his life in his arms, seeing her look at him like he’s the only thing that matters, feeling the world around them disappear.

“Plus he’s turned into such a goody two-shoes,” he chuckles. “He definitely gets that from you, not me.” The laugh quiets; the smile dims. “You tried to warn me,” he says quietly. “Back when Junior was in high school, and he was starting to figure out what I was up to—when you both started to figure it out—you warned me I was gonna lose him. How mad he was at me about it. How ashamed I made him. You always did see him better than I did. You knew I was gonna lose him.”

He thinks of that afternoon, of TJ calling him before he bothered calling Loomis or any other cop, and warmth fills his chest. “And I almost did. But . . . things are better now. He hasn’t forgiven me; I don't know if he ever will. But things are getting better.”

Thoughts of his son—his pride and joy, the best thing that Tony the Tiger Caruso has ever done with his life—make him turn his gaze up to the darkened window of TJ’s room. But then he remembers it’s not TJ sleeping there; he remembers Cora, and he remembers this afternoon, and his heart sinks again as he remembers that he failed his promise to Connie.

And yet . . .

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he says again. “But I know if you were here, you’d tell me I made the right choice. You’d tell me there’ll be other chances to get that guy, but that Cora needed me right then.”

He smiles. “I think you’d like Cora,” he says quietly. “She’s a good kid, and a good cop. And a decent bowler.” He imagines Connie rolling her eyes at that. “She’s becoming a good friend. And hopefully more than that, if that son of ours ever gets around to asking her out. I think she’d make a pretty great daughter-in-law; any chance you can, you know, pull some strings up there to get TJ to do something about it?” He grins. “Yeah, you’d like her. And I bet you’da made me behave for her, too, when she was my P.O. Actually, you two’d team up to make me behave, and I wouldn’t stand a chance against the both of you.” He chuckles, imagining it. “You’d probably’ve had her over for Sunday dinners. And now that she's a detective, you’d be glad our boy has her to watch his back out there.”

A dog barks; the moon comes out from behind a cloud. It’s quiet—for Brooklyn—and the darkness seems to go on forever.

“So I’m sorry I didn’t get the guy, baby. But I know which choice you’d want me to make, and I’m glad I made it. Next time. I promise you, Connie, next time I’m gonna find him.”

The night has grown icy cold, and he’s starting to shiver. But peace is washing over him, and he knows he’ll finally be able to get some sleep. So he heads inside. At the back door, he turns around, looking out at the empty darkness, but no longer feeling alone.

“I love you,” he says quietly. “Still, after all this time. Always will.”

And Tony goes inside and shuts the door.

. . . . . .

fin


End file.
